Thank God You're Here: Big D
by Big D on a Diet
Summary: A collection of very short one-shots based on challenges from the “Thank God You’re Here” thread at Dark Lord Potter. TGYH is an improv game for fanfic authors that tests their ability to work against the clock and a specified word count.
1. Sirius and Peter

Thank God You're Here: Sirius and Peter

by Big D

Disclaimer: Not Mine. No Profit. No Shit.

AN: This collection of fics is based off of challenges that I responded to on the "Thank God You're Here" thread over at Dark Lord Potter, which is basically a jam session for sociopathic fanfic writers. If you're reading this on FFN, then I'd suggest looking up my accounts on Ficwad(dot)com or PatronusCharm(dot)net, as the collection on FFN does not include the NC-17 submissions. Or you can cut out the middle man and just go look for the original thread on DarkLordPotter(dot)net.

This challenge involves Sirius tracking Peter to the Riddle House during Goblet of Fire with the intention of getting his revenge.

Enjoy!

Lighting flashed wildly across the landscape, illuminating a vast, but crumbling manor house that overlooked the small village of Little Hangleton like some ancient, decrepit bird of prey, hardly strong enough to take flight anymore. A few hundred yards away stood a small, silent cottage, in far better repair, but ominously dark and silent.

'All it needs as a ratty motel at the bottom of the hill' Sirius thought irritably to himself, shaking his head a bit to clear the rain from his eyes and wondering if Peter would even understand the reference.

Lighting flashed again, throwing trees and buildings into stark relief, but hardly touching the large, dark form that slunk out from the edge of the forest, taking care to keep low as it prowled stealthily towards the Riddle House. An observer might have found it odd to see a massive, coal black dog moving with such seeming intelligence, but no sane person would be out on a night like this anyway.

Sirius circled wide 'round the manor house, making sure to keep the cottage between himself and the high windows there. It hardly mattered, really. The rain was coming down so thick and heavy that it was almost like a weight pressing down on his back, and he doubted that anyone in the house would be able to spot him at this distance, even if they were looking.

He instinctively sniffed the ground as he moved, but caught nothing but the scent of water and mud. Luckily, Peter's nose would be just as useless in this downpour. He stopped as he reached the edge of the grounds, bending down to examine an odd trail that had filled with water; like a shallow ditch with a wavy, undulating edge. He sniffed again and his nose caught a whiff of something foul and unclean, like a rancid sewer, but he didn't recognize either the smell or the tracks. Something being dragged along the ground, perhaps? There was no scent of human, but that could have been washed away by now.

He snooped around the cottage briefly, satisfying himself that it was empty, then poked his head around the side and eyed the wide-open expanse of sodden earth that separated him from the main house. He would have to run for it, and this close, even the rain wouldn't hide him. There was nothing for it but try and hope for the best, because turning back simply wasn't an option.

No matter what it took, Peter Pettigrew would die tonight.

He bent low and gathered himself, preparing to make a dash for the house, when suddenly the same foul scent from earlier drifted across his nose. The fur on the back of his neck rose and he instinctively flung himself to the side, barely avoiding the lunge of a massive snake that had somehow crept up behind him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the flash of bone-white fangs, each of them as long as his human middle fingers, and felt the snake's head brush against his haunches as he twisted his body away and let out a deep, challenging growl.

The monster must have been twenty feet long, and moved with an unnatural speed that belied its immense size. With unbelievable quickness and purpose, it twisted itself up into a ball and struck out at him again, bracing itself against its own coils to power the lunge. Sirius dropped to his belly, the strike whistling past his ear, and felt the snake actually land partially on his back. He dug into the mud with his paws and shook the huge thing off of him, rolling to the side just in time to avoid a third strike, this time with the snake actually coming back across its own body and landing with a splash in the muck next to him.

Sirius bounded on top of it, biting into the back of its neck, his canines punching through the heavy scales and deep into the flesh behind the head. He shook his muzzle violently, foul-tasting black blood flooding into his mouth, making him want to retch, but he stubbornly cinched his teeth in a little deeper and held on for everything he was worth.

The beast underneath him hissed ferociously, writhing and coiling, struggling to escape, but he refused to let go. It twisted again, horribly strong, and forced him over onto his side. Sirius felt it stop fighting to free itself, and for a moment thought that it was giving up. He was proved wrong when it wrenched its body again, rolling them both over, its coils wrapping around his middle and tightening into a death grip.

It was a race now, one that Sirius had no intention of losing. He growled again, shaking the creature, trying to snap its neck, and at the same time, felt one of his own ribs give way under the tremendous pressure of the snake's constriction. He forced down a whine, not willing to waste the breath, and briefly considered transforming back into his human form. He discarded the idea immediately. In human form he would have lost the advantage of his sharp teeth, and likely wouldn't have been able to reach his wand anyway, given that it would have appeared underneath where the snake was wrapped around him.

He felt another rib break and realized that his bones were giving way faster than the snake was losing blood. It was time to take a chance, maybe his last one. He pushed himself up with his back legs, so that the beast's face was pressed into the thick mud, trapping it, then let go of its neck. The thing gripped him tighter, sensing victory, but Sirius quickly took hold of it again, this time biting down into its skull. He squeezed with everything he was worth, and felt the delicate bones of the snake's head warp and splinter beneath his jaws. There was a sudden spurt of something lumpy and revolting across the inside of his mouth, and abruptly the monster gave a final twitch and went still.

Somehow he managed to unwrap himself from the dead snake's coils and flopped onto the ground, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as the rain washed over him, too exhausted to do anything except lay there and whine softly.

On another day, in another place, he might have given up, walked away. Admitted defeat and lived to fight the good fight some other time. But instead, Sirius Black, convicted murderer and innocent man, dragged himself determinedly to his feet, spat out the last of the dead snake's brains, and trotted painfully towards the Riddle House, driven by one all-encompassing thought.

Kill Peter Pettigrew.

He transformed as he reached the house, bracing himself with his hands against the broad steps that led to the main door and trying to block out the pain from his chest. He wheezed out a cough, then growled softly when he spotted tiny flecks of blood on the ground in front of him. Damned snake must have punctured a lung.

Pulling out his wand, he cast a simple bandage spell around his chest. No time for anything fancier. If he lived through this, Madam Pomfrey could berate and mother him all she wanted. Taking a final moment to brace himself, he opened the door and stepped through.

The entrance hall was as rundown as the outside looked, thick with dust and littered with cobwebs. Sirius peered around carefully, then shifted into dog form and tasted the air. It was so choked with mold and age that he barely fought down a sneeze. Somewhere in the background, he caught a whiff of several distinct scents.

One was the rancid smell of the snake from the grounds, heavy and close, like it spent a great deal of time slithering about the house... a guard, then. The second was similar, but smaller and even more repulsive somehow. A third was human, but so faint that he could barely sense it. Someone who had entered, but never left, if the hint of death that accompanied it was any indication. The owner of the cottage, perhaps? There was another human smell, but it was distant with age and he didn't recognize it. And the last...

Peter.

Sirius swallowed a murderous growl. Silently, he stalked up the stairs, following the scent of his one-time friend, and soon found himself in an upstairs hallway, near an open pair of wide double doors that led to what appeared to be an old library. He could hear a pair of voices from inside, and made extra efforts to soften his steps as he approached.

"Perhaps Nagini simply lost herself in the storm, Master. Or found herself something alive and wriggling to prey upon," Peter's cringing voice drifted from the open door.

"I think you underestimate my familiar, Wormtail," a cold, hissing, but somehow tiny voice replied. "She knows her duties far better than you do, and would not have been gone this long without a good reason. She knows that it is time for her to be milked."

Sirius felt his face twist into a confused expression. Milked? He had thought that they were talking about the snake he had killed outside, but the bit about milking confused him. It didn't matter. Peter was finally within his grasp, and this time he wouldn't escape. He shifted into human form, then felt his heart stop when the cold voice from inside began screeching.

"What was that!! What was that!! I sense magic!! Wormtail, we have an int–!!"

Sirius didn't let him finish his warning. He swept into the library, wand at the ready, and immediately spotted Peter rushing towards a heavy leather chair that sat with its back to the door. Wormtail's wand was in his hand and he fired off a wild curse that slammed into the doorframe next to Sirius, exploding it in a shower of knife-like wooden shrapnel.

He held up an arm to shield himself from the debris and whipped his wand towards the traitor. "_Seco Iuguolo_," he spat viciously.

An angry purple hex erupted from his wand and took Peter in the dead center of his chest, blowing a hole in it the size of a Quaffle. Blood and tiny bits of shredded flesh splattered across the room behind him, fragments of bone making little thunking noises wherever they struck something solid. Sirius felt his lips turn up in a ferocious snarl. Wormtail stood still for a split second, almost in surprise, then dropped to his knees. His eyes met Sirius' momentarily, and something that passed very close to a look of apology and regret crossed his face, before he fell forward with a thump and went limp.

Sirius wanted to howl in triumph, but something about the look that Peter had given him robbed him of any real sense of vengeance. It was the kind of look that one old friend gave another after doing him a great service, despite knowing that he didn't deserve it. Sirius suddenly realized that the best favor he could have done for Wormtail was to put him out of his misery.

A final gift, one Marauder to another.

He was brought back to the present by the sight of a thin, decrepit arm reaching from the leather chair, towards a long wand laying on the end table next to him. Sirius fired off a banisher, sending the table and wand flying into the far wall, then warily circled around the chair, careful to keep his distance and ready for anything.

What greeted his eyes was a vision out of a nightmare. It almost looked like a human child, but twisted and horribly deformed. Its back and shoulders were stunted and broken, its face mutilated, more snake-like than human. The creature's skin was mottled and grotesque, muscles and veins clearly visible where it wasn't covered with tiny, dull scales. Sirius thought he might vomit. It peered up at him through red, slitted eyes that held too much intelligence for comfort, and spoke.

"Sirius Black, I presume," the thing hissed, totally confident for all that it was unarmed and helpless. "It is unfortunate that we have never met before, but allow me to introduce myself... I am Lord Voldemort."

"I thought you'd be taller," Sirius quipped, instinctively hiding his revulsion with humor.

Voldemort actually smiled at him, showing blunted fangs in an otherwise nearly toothless mouth. "I'll admit, I've seen better days," he said wryly. "But so have you... and you can see them again, standing by my side."

Sirius snarled wordlessly and stalked over, kicking the chair onto its side. Voldemort tumbled from his perch and sprawled face first onto the dusty wooden floor. The weakened Dark Lord of Magic angrily tried to pick himself up, but his malformed limbs refused to support him.

'Oh, dear," Sirius deadpanned. "It looks like you've fallen and you can't get up. You know, the muggles have a service for that now. I saw it on the telly."

"I'll kill you," Voldemort hissed in a rage. "I'll kill the boy and everyone else you care for, and bathe in their blood! I'll keep you alive and listen your screams for a lullaby! I'll..."

Sirius cut him off by calmly stepping on his outstretched hand, crushing the soft, unformed bones there into pulp. The Dark Lord growled painfully, but stubbornly refused to scream.

Sirius squatted down near Voldemort's head and glared at him. "That's an interesting proposal there, short stuff. Tell you what... here's my counteroffer. _I'm_ going to keep _you_ alive, and turn you over to the Ministry. Normally, I'd just kill you–Merlin knows you deserve it–except you have that nasty habit of not staying dead, and you seem pretty harmless for the moment. With any luck, Dumbledore will figure out a way to put an end to you once and for all, and I can piss on your grave nice and proper, once your in it... now how's that sound to you?"

Voldemort smiled, and Sirius felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, just as it had in his dog form. "It sounds like you should spend less time making witty repartee, and more time acting," he smirked.

Sirius ducked as a jet of green light streaked through the spot where his back had just been. The curse struck the wall nearest him, instantly setting it aflame. He rolled away and blindly fired off several curses over his shoulder, coming to rest behind a massive oaken table in the middle of the room. He glanced out warily and spotted a wizard dressed all in black streaking across the room, leaping over Peter's corpse as he headed towards Voldemort.

Sirius tried to fire off a hex at the newcomer, but the man was too fast for him, hitting the table with a banisher that sent it tumbling over on top of him, pinning him to the ground and aggravating his broken ribs. He heard himself scream in pain, then raised his wand again at the man, who had picked the Dark Lord up in his arms.

"_Avada Kedavra_," he roared, but not quick enough, as the man activated a portkey and disappeared with Voldemort a split second before the jet of green light struck him. The curse continued on, slamming into another wall and setting it on fire as well.

The aged wood and dusty books that filled the room were going up like kindling, and it was just seconds before the acrid smell of smoke filled Sirius' nose. He cast a levitation spell on the table on top of him and struggled to his feet, applying a Bubblehead Charm to his face as he did. He probably could have quenched the fire, but he was too tired and angry to bother. If this was Voldemort's house, then it could burn for all he cared. He stumbled towards Peter's body and transfigured it into a small child's toy–a rubber rat–which he stuffed into his pocket before spinning on his heel and Apparating away.

With proof of Peter's death, perhaps something could be salvaged from this after all.

(End)


	2. Filch's Worst Nightmare

Thank God You're Here: Filch's Worst Nightmare

by Big D

Disclaimer: Not Mine. No Profit. No Shit.

AN: This one's not my personal favorite, but some of you might like it. The challenge here was to write a fic featuring the line: "I've often found that it's the hell raisers who make the best teachers. They've already been on the other side and tend to take an almost sadistic glee in slapping down the young upstarts before they can cause any real trouble."

Part of the idea behind "Thank God You're Here" is to produce the fic that you've been challenged to do within a specified time limit and word count. Sometimes that kind of pressure makes diamonds, other times it makes shit.

I'm pretty sure this one is closer to the latter.

Big D

Argus tried to pitch his voice respectfully as he followed in the Headmistress's wake. "It's just not a good idea," he whined, failing miserably. "The boy will have the school turned upside down inside of a week!"

"Nonsense, Mister Filch," McGonagall replied. "Mister Weasley has calmed significantly since the end of the war. He has even begun dressing more appropriately to his station. He'll make a fine Potions Master."

"The little brat failed every Potions exam he ever sat! I should know, I had to clean up after most of them!"

McGonagall stopped and sighed. "Mister Filch... I can fully understand your... reservations concerning George Weasley's return to Hogwarts, but what would you have me do? Professor Slughorn's unfortunate death has left us in a dreadful bind, and George was the only one who would even consider taking the job on such short notice."

Filch could feel his stomach dropping down to his toes, and desperately fired off the last bullet in his gun. "What about the Potter brat," he suggested distastefully. "He may have broken every rule in the book, but at least he never stuck a swamp in an upstairs corridor!"

McGonagall frowned. "As you are well aware, Mister Potter has taken a year off to, as he rather loathsomely put it: 'bag as many witches as will drop their knickers for me'." She tried to smile and put a happy spin on it for him. "Besides, I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. I've often found that it's the hell raisers who make the best teachers. They've already been on the other side and tend to take an almost sadistic glee in slapping down the young upstarts before they can cause any real trouble. You should enjoy that."

Filch muttered something under his breath about senile old bitches... er, witches, then gulped and paled as he saw who was approaching them.

"Good afternoon, Headmistress McGonagall," George Weasley said politely, then nodded respectfully at Filch. "Argus."

"Mister Filch," he snapped at the red-headed boy.

George held up a placating hand. "My apologies. Mister Filch, if you insist."

Filch eyed him dubiously, but had to admit that McGonagall was right about him dressing in a more dignified manner. Gone was the garish, iridescent dragon skin suit and ridiculous purple shirt, replaced by an almost somber, high-necked, plain black robe, clearly hand tailored to his long frame, but otherwise unremarkable. The boy's formerly chin-length red hair had been neatly trimmed and tamed into something that would pass unremarked in the hallways of the Ministry of Magic itself. The only thing that stuck out about him was the missing ear on the left side of his head, and even that lent him a worldly, almost noble aspect.

Perhaps the senile old bitch was right. Maybe losing a brother and a body part had settled the boy down a little.

"Headmistress," Weasley said, holding up a thick file of papers, "I was wondering if you could answer a question about these class schedules. I seem to be teaching both the fifth and seventh years at nine o'clock on Monday morning."

McGonagall frowned. "Oh, dear. Someone must have made a mistake. Let's go to my office and check the copy there." She glanced reproachfully at Filch. "And George? Please feel free to call me Minerva when we are away from the students. No need to be so formal."

Weasley favored her with a polite nod. "Thank you, Minerva. It's a little difficult to get used to, but I'll try." He gestured towards her office and fell into step beside her as they walked away.

Filch sneered at their backs as they left, then felt his eyes narrow as they reached the end of the hall and Weasley said something quietly to McGonagall. She nodded and went on without him, and for a moment, he simply stood there watching her go.

Suddenly, his head jerked towards Filch, a maniacal smile splitting his face from ear to ear. He grabbed the collar of his robes and jerked them open in a grand gesture, displaying a full-body clown suit, all done in shifting neon colors. At his neck was a wildly spinning bow tie, and strapped to his groin was... Filch gaped... a vibrant green dildo, shaped like a serpent with its jaws open wide. Filch's head nodded dumbly, transfixed as George Weasley thrust his pelvis rhythmically, the snake's head bouncing up and down wildly.

"Hey, Argus," Weasley said gleefully. "Seen your cat lately?" He then let out a deep laugh, Dark Lord style, and scampered away.

Filch stared in horror for several seconds, then came to his senses.

"Fuck that... I quit!"

(End)


	3. A Visit With Norbert

Thank God You're Here: A Visit With Norbert

by Big D

Disclaimer: Not Mine. No Profit. No Shit.

Harry stepped out of the heavy-timbered wooden lodge and into the brisk Romanian night. Spring was finally beginning to take hold in the valleys below, but up here in the mountains, where the snows never truly melted, it still felt like winter at Hogwarts.

Blowing into his hands for warmth, he let his feet lead him down the narrow, hard beaten trail that led away from the small settlement where the dragon handlers lived, towards one of the high-arching, manmade caves that served as kennels for the female dragons. Dragonesses tended to be fiercely territorial, particularly when in heat, and needed to be spaced well apart to keep them from tearing each other apart. Luckily, there was plenty of empty room out here, and once the fems had nested, they were relatively docile.

Relative being the operative word. Dragons were tricky business on the best of days, but Harry had learned enough about their ways in the time since he had first come to the preserve that he had no qualms about approaching one alone.

It had surprised him a bit when Charlie had offered him a job. The rest of his family had all turned their backs on him after they'd caught him, Hermione, and Fleur rutting like wild animals on Molly and Arthur's bed. It had been a simple and rather elegant solution to the problem that had arisen once the three of them had finally come to their senses and realized that none of them actually wanted to marry their respective Weasleys. For some reason, Charlie seemed to be the only one who understood why a sane person would want nothing to do with his family.

Besides, Harry had needed a break from being the savior of the world in the worst way, and Romania had turned out to be the perfect place to get away for a while. There was plenty of good, honest work to be done around the preserve, and no one there to bother him except Charlie and the other dragon handlers, all of whom had far too many scars themselves to be bothered much with the one that adorned his forehead.

He glanced at the signpost as he approached the hanger-like artificial den. "Norberta" had never quite sounded right to him, never mind that Hagrid's one-time pet had turned out to be a girl. She would always be Norbert to him. A reminder of a more innocent time, if a paradoxically dangerous one. He had stopped by tonight because the Hogwarts' groundskeeper had owled him a batch of his homemade rock cakes and asked if he would share a few with "Little Norbie".

The fact that Little Norbie was now over a hundred feet long and nearly as big around as a bus seemed completely lost on the man, but who was Harry to judge?

His eyes narrowed in concern as soon as he entered the stone kennel and saw Norbert laying on her side. Something was wrong. The posture was all off–dragons hated exposing their bellies like that–and she was making a noise that he had never heard any of them make before, almost like a low, rumbling purr, as if from a housecat the size of a barn.

"Hello, love," he said in a steady, calm voice as he approached her and laid a hand on her narrow, tapered muzzle, which was nearly as long as he was. She was warm to the touch, warmer than she should be, and he could feel her trembling slightly under his hand. Very carefully, he reached out and lifted one of her eyelids, exposing a golden, slitted eye nearly as wide around as a dinner plate.

The slit down the middle was almost closed, but it suddenly widened as a long, lazy shudder swept through the great beast. Norbert kicked her leg fitfully a couple of times, and Harry had to leap out of the way as she snorted out a small burst of flame right next to him. She lifted her head and looked at him for a moment, almost apologetically, then settled back down, seemingly content.

Something was wrong here. Norbert was acting like she was sick, but aside from her very slight fever, she looked perfectly healthy. He circled around to examine her further, making sure to keep a measured distance between himself and her massive claws. He didn't think she would attack him on purpose, but he would be no less dead if she kicked out a leg and gutted him without looking.

Harry frowned as he examined her hind area and noticed an unusual swelling around the cloaca. It looked as if the swelling had caused the vent lips to part slightly, and there seemed to be some kind of clear, viscous fluid seeping from the opening. Harry rubbed his chin thoughtfully and wondered what it could be. It didn't look like runoff from an infection, but there was a possibility that the canal could be obstructed with something that was irritating the delicate inner walls and stimulating the mucosal tissues, causing the discharge.

Harry suddenly laughed out loud as the answer hit him. That was an awfully complicated way of saying that Norbert had gotten something stuck in her pussy and was getting off on it. He took in her posture and behavior again and shook his head in amusement at her "illness".

"Good for you, girl," he said proudly. "But I think I'm going to have to pull it out. I hope you don't hold it against me, but we can't have you catching a real infection from whatever you managed to get stuck up there." He shook his head again, this time in wonder. "How did you pull that off, anyway?"

Norbert didn't respond, of course. She merely lifted her head to watch as Harry rolled up his sleeve and cautiously approached her. He braced himself with his right hand against her belly and gently parted the massive lips of her vent with his left. Dragonskin was one of the toughest substances known to wizardkind, but she was just as soft inside as any human–albeit a fair bit warmer.

His arm slid in easily all the way up the wrist, but he couldn't feel an obstruction. Pushing in deeper, all the way to his biceps, Harry searched for the mysterious object. Suddenly something brushed against the tips of his fingers. It was smooth and round, but more importantly than that, it jerked when he touched it.

Whatever was in there was alive.

His mind filled with a new sense of concern, Harry plunged his arm inside of Norbert as far as he could reach. The dragoness began to grow restless, growling slightly and flexing as if she was preparing to stand, but Harry ignored her. What the hell was this thing? Some kind of magical parasite? He considered the idea that she had miscarried and that pup was somehow stuck, but she shouldn't have been far enough along for a fetus to develop yet. Besides which, this thing was definitely alive. His fingers brushed against it again and he could clearly feel it trying to squirm further up the birthing canal and away from him. He just couldn't reach the damn thing!

"Sorry, girl," he muttered. "But you're probably not going to like this... _Accio!!_"

Norbert hissed angrily as Harry's wandless summoning spell seized whatever was crawling inside of her, pulling it towards his outstretched hand. He latched onto it for all he was worth and yanked hard, bracing his right foot against Norbert's belly for additional leverage, the thing frantically trying to pull out of his grasp. The resistance suddenly disappeared and Harry tumbled backwards onto the stone floor, the slime-covered creature landing in front of him with a wet splat. He scrambled to his feet, drawing his wand as he rose and training it on...

Charlie Weasley?

A naked Charlie Weasley, drenched in dragon spunk?

A naked Charlie Weasley, drenched in dragon spunk with... Harry fought the urge to retch... a bobbing erection between his legs?

Harry lost the battle with the swirling bile in his stomach, turning his head and spewing up all over the floor of the kennel.

Charlie raised a placating hand. "Listen, Harry..." he began.

Harry stumbled back, waving him off frantically. "No, I don't want know!"

"Wait, you don't understand!"

Harry stared at him incredulously. "I don't WANT to understand," he practically screamed.

"But we're in love..."

Harry's body was suddenly wracked by a second bout of projectile vomiting.

"She's having my child..."

"Oh, dear God..." Harry breathed in between dry heaves. "Just stop... For the love of all that is holy, please stop now!"

A weighted silence descended on the cave, broken only be the sound of Harry occasionally spitting out the remaining chunks of barf stuck to the insides of his mouth and his deep, gasping breaths. After a long moment he was finally able to regain enough control of himself to turn back to Charlie, who had picked himself up off the floor and was standing next to Norbert with one hand resting lightly on her flank.

Harry blinked at the nearly identical looks that the two of them were giving him. He had never seen a dragon look so... serious and thoughtful before.

"Harry..." Charlie started, "I realize that we're dumping this on you all at once, and I apologize for that..." he looked at Norbert, who almost seemed to nod encouragingly at him, "but we were wondering if you would consent to be the godfather of our child?"

Harry felt his jaw drop. "I can't believe I thought you were the normal one..." he whispered, before turning and running blindly into the night.

Charlie folded his arms across his chest and sighed disappointedly as he watched Harry flee. He glanced at Norbert, who nuzzled his shoulder affectionately with her great snout, then shook his head.

"Oh well... guess we'll just have to ask McGonagall."

(End)

AN: This one started out as a discussion on DLP where I made a joke about how little effort JKR had bothered to put into the names of Harry and Co.'s children, saying that: "Charlie and Hestia later got married and had a little girl named Hagrid Norbert Weasley." Well, someone then reminded me that "Norbert" was really "Norberta", and then one thing led to another and I ended up being challenged to write a Charlie/Norberta fic.

This fic is proof that while I sometimes suffer for my art, generally speaking it's you guys who end up feeling the pain.


	4. The Flood

Thank God You're Here: The Flood

by Big D

Disclaimer: Not mine. No Profit. No Shit.

Challenge: Harry fast-forwarded the tape, stopping at 5:59:06.

"Which is weird, right?" Ron said, gesturing towards the fallen Death Eater. It was barely recognizable as human, let alone male or female. "Look at it. Something just, scrambled the insides."

"What is that?" Snape muttered. "Muggle weapons?"

"I don't know," Fred said. "Maybe it was an accident, friendly fire or something?"

"What do we have, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, walking into Ginny's line of sight.

"Bad-ass DE unit," Snape replied. "All KIA."

"Real pretty," Dumbledore said, casting his eyes onto the cadaver. "Friend of yours?"

"Nah, we just met," Ron said quietly.

Length/Time: Whatever

* * *

Harry jerked the modified omnioculars away from his face as something began pounding against one of the heavy metal doors that lined the dimly walls of the dungeon. The thing must have been a good six inches of solid, magically-enhanced steel, but Harry could clearly see it denting under the massively powerful blows. He frowned. No, not blows... they sounded more like small explosions. He raised his wand and carefully backed away towards the door he had just entered through.

It swung closed behind him with a crash.

Cursing to himself, Harry drew his second wand and moved to the center of the chamber, keeping one weapon trained on the door that seemed moments away from bursting open and his back-up wand in a defensive position behind him.

There was a shrieking sound of tortured metal ripping apart and the door burst open.

Odd, bulbous little creatures boiled out of the tiny cell like a champaign cork popping. Harry caught a glimpse of sickening yellow-green flesh and the smell of pure rot and decay before they were on him, bounding through the air, grasping at his boots with long tentacles like ravenously hungry worms. He greeted them with a stream of fire from one wand and a powerful dueling shield from the other. The hideous little monstrosities shrieked and exploded in violent bursts of green swamp gas when the flames touched them, but somehow were able to pass through his shield with no resistance whatsoever, one of them landing on his shoulder and driving a sharp spike filled with potent venom deep into his flesh, aiming for his spine. He gritted his teeth and cleared the area immediately around him, then tore the creature off of his body, flinging it away to burst harmlessly against the wall.

He could still feel the long stinger inside of him, having broken off when he pulled the thing loose, throbbing as it pumped even more toxins into his system. His temperature spiked, the blood in his veins churning as his immune system raced to destroy the invader. The amount of poison that he had taken should have been enough to kill him on the spot, but his near-fatal encounter with Voldemort's basilisk during his second year at Hogwarts had given him vast resistance when it came to poisons and venoms, something that had saved his life many times over the years, and hopefully would again now.

Fewer than half the number of creatures that had originally attacked him were still alive, but even more began to erupt from the other doors, surrounding him on all sides. They swarmed towards him in a wave of bulbous, diseased flesh and Harry activated the enchantments in his boots, launching himself upwards and putting as much distance as he could between him and the flood of chittering beasts. It wasn't much, given the constraints of the ceiling above, but it was enough to buy him some time. The very-illegal boots were based off of the charmed sandals that the Greeks had used back in the good old days, and worked very much the same way that a broom did.

Harry glided through the air like a particularly manly figure skater, dodging nimbly as the creatures hurled themselves at him over and over again and dispensing ugly death with sweeping bursts of flame. On a hunch, he switched to a solid shield projected from the end of his other wand, which gave him less total coverage but was far more effective than his fully magical protection had been a few moments ago. A dark suspicion floated through his mind and he decided to test it out. He thinned the herd down even more, until only a dozen or so of the little ghouls remained, then dropped back to the floor and stepped aside, letting one of them get behind him and firing a Stunning Spell at it once it was isolated from its comrades.

Sure enough, the spell passed right through the creature, as if the magic couldn't even touch it. The thing bounded at him again and he swatted it away with his shield, letting loose with a Killing Curse to equally useless effect.

"Oh, Voldemort," Harry whispered. "You stupid, psychotic son of a bitch. What the hell did you make down here?"

He ran a few more quick tests on the survivors and came up with the same disturbing results. The creatures could be killed or blocked by things _created_ with magic, such as fire or transfigured objects, but couldn't actually be touched by magic itself. The implications were clear and terrifying. It meant that no existing wards, not even the ancient and formidable ones surrounding Hogwarts, would be able to sense them or prevent them from entering. That any magical means of tracking or containing them would be completely and utterly useless.

If these things ever got loose...

Harry snarled wordlessly and destroyed the final handful with a massive, arching blast of blue-white lightning, then turned back towards the door he had entered from. The venom he had been injected with still bubbled in his system, but he could feel the effects lessening rapidly. If not for his special immunity he never would have survived this, but that wouldn't save anyone else from these beasts... this... _flood_. It certainly hadn't saved Dumbledore and the others.

"Well... at least it can't get any worse," he muttered to himself.

BOOOOOMMMMM!! The vast, echoing sound of something far larger than the little pods that had already attacked him slamming against the door in front of him told him differently.

Harry snorted in irritation. "Fuck... had to open my stupid mouth."

This time he didn't wait for them to come to him. He took a moment to whip up the most powerful Banishing Spell that he could possibly cast and flung it at the thick metal door. Five hundred pounds of solid steel broke free of its hinges and threw itself forward, crushing the creature behind it into pulp against the far wall. Vile green and yellow gore splattered in all directions, but the creature's companions didn't hesitate for a second, flinging themselves mindlessly into the fray.

It was then that Harry understood the true nature of the Dark Lord's Flood.

They were people. Bloated and rotten like they had been left to decompose in a swamp for days, their chests ripped open from the inside, the hearts and lungs replaced by the pod-like things he had fought earlier, but still the bodies of people. Most of them wore torn and blood-soaked Death Eater robes, but Harry had no problem picking out the walking corpses of the Order team that had been sent in to discover just what kind of "super-weapon" that Voldemort was supposed to be developing here.

Little had they known that the so-called weapon would find them first.

Harry didn't hesitate. He knew what he would want if he were in their place. If there was any part of his friends that was still alive and trapped inside those decayed bodies, then he was determined to end their pain and stop this infection from spreading.

But it wasn't nearly that easy. The Flood's resistance to direct magic seemed to extend to their hosts as well, and the fire that had worked so well for him against the little ones was much less effective against the animated corpses he now faced. Oh, it burned them just fine, but these combat forms were large enough to shrug off the pain of their scorched flesh and keep coming, significantly faster and stronger than they had been when they were alive.

Harry took to the air again, but the creatures quickly followed, bounding at him with great leaps that often as not sent them crashing violently into the ceiling. He moved around the room, never staying in one place, alternating fire and lightning with hordes of conjured ball bearings, which he banished savagely into the crowd of former humans like so much ancient musket fire. Curdled, viscous blood splattered onto the floor as arms and legs were ripped apart by the merciless hail of heavy steel projectiles, but the mindless creatures just wouldn't get the damn hint.

He thought that he was beginning to turn the tide when one of them raised his wand and fired off a weak Killing Curse. Harry nearly dropped out of the air in shock at the revelation that these... things could actually cast spells using the bodies they had stolen.

Something seemed decidedly unfair about that.

Like it was a cue, the other surviving combat forms unleashed a veritable storm of spells at him, forcing Harry to go on the defensive with both wands just to survive. He wasn't going to last long like this. He needed to escape, needed to regroup and figure out his next move. Moving backwards, deflecting spells and physical attacks at the same time, he flew towards the door and quickly dived through, turning on the speed once he got into the hallway and streaking towards what he hoped would be at least temporary safety.

With the Flood securely behind him for the moment, Harry ducked into what appeared to be a small washroom and took stock. In the crush of battle he had taken a number of small and not-so-small wounds, and was leaking blood in at least a dozen places, but he thought he would survive. For now, anyway. But it wouldn't take the Flood long to hunt him down, and once he had been eliminated, there would be nothing to stop them from making their way to the surface and infecting every person they could get their slimy little tentacles on.

He glanced into a mirror set into the far wall and grimaced at the haggard, bloody reflection that stared back at him. He was in no condition to go fight a one-man war against a foe that was immune to his most powerful weapons... but it didn't seem like he had much choice.

What he needed was an edge. Some way to neutralize at least some of the Flood's advantages over him. He doubted that he was going to be able to figure out a way around their immunity to magic anytime in the next fifteen minutes, so that meant trying to match their strength and speed somehow.

His eyes narrowed in thought and a faint smile flickered across his face as he reached into one of the inner pockets of his robe, pulling out a flat, circular disk roughly the size of his palm. On one face, a hammer was engraved into the center, surrounded by various strengthening and protection runes in a dozen different arcane languages. On the opposite side were minuscule lines of computer code that seemed to subtly change and shift across the jade green surface.

Technomancy, the blending of magic and science, was one of Hermione's pet projects, and one that she had made vast leaps in since the war began. The majority of her work was way over Harry's head, but this particular example was something that he had been helping her design and test out. When used properly, it would clothe the caster in armor that vastly enhanced their natural physical abilities and gave them head-to-toe protection against most kinds of magical and non-magical attacks. There were still a number of bugs to work out, largely due to the fact that the armor worked by anchoring itself to the user's magical core. So not only did it have the very real potential of killing anyone who wasn't magically strong enough to support it, but it was a steady drain on the user's power, preventing them from casting higher-level offensive and defensive spells.

Harry felt himself grin. Spells which were practically useless to him at the moment.

_"Lorica Magus,"_ he growled, tapping his wand against the hammer symbol in the center of the amulet.

There was a flash of copper colored light and he felt something pressing against him on all sides, molding to him like a second skin. He looked down saw his hands encased in heavy gloves of green ceramic plating, with black mesh showing through at the joints. Fresh energy flowed through his limbs like a dozen Pepper-Up potions and he suddenly felt like he could run for miles.

Harry glanced into the mirror and chuckled at the gold visor that covered his face. He turned his head as the sound of rapid scuffling and animalistic howls reached him from down the hall. It looked like the Flood had finally caught up... and that suited him just fine.

Taking a wand in either hand, he stepped out to greet them. The Flood swarmed at him, hundreds of disgusting, mutated bodies cramming into either end of the narrow corridor. Harry grinned under his helmet.

"Now let's finish this fight."

(End)

AN: As you can see, I used the challenge as more of a quick prologue than anything else. Fans of Halo don't need any more setup to know which scene this is, and anyone who hasn't played it should be able to follow along just fine.

I was _this_ close to making the Flood into flesh-eating bunny rabbits, just so I could include a joke about Harry forgetting to bring his mummified fox paw (trust me, it's hilarious if you know what I'm talking about), but thought better at the last minute.

Big D


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